The Blade Came Too Close to My Own Throat

by Didi Jackson

The blade came too close to my own throat.
I walk as far away as I can
from the home of your hands.
Here, in the dark, I open my robe, close it,
open it again to the stars.
It is an empty hour; it always is.

In the garden, the azaleas
wink at the new nights.
Spring has come early again this year,
and I prune the crepe myrtles,
hoping this time for a deeper bloom.
I am the one who has left you behind.

New hands spell a new narration.
It is a big sky, a lake that unfolds each night,
rosemary and basil, a whisper of bark,
and the moan of stacked stones.
Like Mary Magdalene,
the moon washes my feet.